Ribbons
by Avenel
Summary: Sometimes, when the rest of the world seems to spin to a dark, wrenching close, only those who truly love can bring a candle into the darkest of corners.  A Rain and Kivan romance.
1. Chapter 1

This is inspired by a particular scene in Domi's BG1 NPC project mod. Kivan's vow is taken directly from that encounter, with some minor differences in wording in my version. As usual, the disclaimers apply, and I own none of the characters save Rain.

RIBBONS – PART I

In their warm, humid tent, Rain sat on Kivan's bedroll in her thin, light shift, her knees bent and her arms clasped around her legs. She sighed with languid pleasure as he combed out her damp hair with an ivory-handled brush. His strokes were sure, soothing and rhythmic; his calloused fingers deft and gentle as he untangled a wet snarl and carefully set it to rights.

She smiled drowsily and let her head lower a little. Kivan's legs were stretched either side of her, his boots thrown off, and like her, he was seeking a reprieve from the sultry Tethyrian heat in the forest outside, clad in only his dusty brown breeches. Though they had just returned from bathing in a thankfully cool stream nearby, the hot, moist air was already sinking into Rain's skin, making her long for the cool of evening.

It was not too far off, now. The daylight was waning, the shadows moving across the canvas as the sun lowered in the west. The insects were buzzing noisily in the thick lazy air beneath the trees. Rain listened to their humming chorus as she rested her brow on her knees, feeling Kivan's slow, unhurried caresses as he ran the brush through her russet locks.

Her tired thoughts began to wander.

They wandered back to Saradush, and the throngs of her half-sisters and brothers still trapped within.

They wandered to the temple they must find tomorrow, the one hidden deep in this forest, the Forest of Mir.

Yaga-Shura.

_Melissan_.

Rain's brow creased in worry. She couldn't shake off her strange, unsettling misgivings, her fear that she was making a terrible mistake. Rain's instinct for survival had always been strong; it had seen her twist away from the hidden dagger aimed for her back, again and again. She had no liking for Melissan. None at all. Neither she nor Kivan trusted the human mage. The woman was more than a little…_off_. Rain felt as though she was not stepping carefully enough, misplaying her hand. But short of stripping Yaga-Shura of his apparent invincibility, and ending the siege, Rain had no idea how to unravel the agenda that Melissan clearly had.

She sighed again, wearily this time, and tried to push away her useless thoughts.

Kivan drew the soft bristles the full length of her hair, making her stretch out her arced spine in sheer, simple luxury. "What are you thinking about, amael?" he asked her gently.

"Saradush. Melissan." Her voice was muffled in her knees. "I'm worried, Kivan. We need to free the city soon."

"I know." He said it just as gently as before. They had already talked about it at length during the day, and he knew her fears intimately. So to distract her, he set aside the brush and took up her long hair in both hands, running his fingers through the smooth locks, down to her shoulders. "Think about this instead," he whispered. He began to massage her warm skin through the sleeveless linen, his strong fingers probing the knotted muscles in her shoulders.

"Mmm." She made a small sound of contentment and relaxed under his touch, letting him do as he would.

Kivan laughed, low and husky. "Are you enjoying that, my love?"

"Oh, yes," she agreed, smiling lazily. "Very much so." Lifting her head, she shifted back into his embrace, feeling the heat of his hard, scarred chest against her back. The falcon pendant he wore around his neck dug into her skin, but Rain didn't mind. She laid a hand possessively on his firm, muscled flank, and caressed his leg familiarly through the rich leather of his breeches. "This is nice too," she murmured.

He inhaled a short, sharp breath and slid his hands from her shoulders, locking one arm tightly around her middle. "It is." Gently, he tucked a damp lock of hair behind her ear and crooked one finger, smoothing it in a long, sensuous line down her soft throat, along her collarbone. She shivered with pleasure and leaned back into him.

"I love your hair," he said softly. "So beautiful." His warm breath tickled her skin as he pressed a lingering kiss to her neck. Rain shuddered in delight.

Kivan paused and took another strand of hair between his fingers. He rubbed it slowly between the pads of his thumb and forefinger, as though savouring the texture, and considered her thoughtfully.

"I never did ask," he began, cautious and tentative. "What happened…?" He swallowed thickly and tried again. "What happened to the ribbons I gave you," he asked her softly, "the ones I gave you in Baldur's Gate?"

Rain stiffened in memory. Irenicus' tortures were too recent, her mind and body still raw, and she tensed before she could stop herself. She consciously made her muscles relax. "Irenicus took them," she said, lowering her eyes to his arm around her stomach.

"I thought so," he said quietly, and she heard the tender sorrow in the hoarseness of his voice. "I am sorry, _Rosa_."

"Don't be." She smiled, softly, and reached up to lay her hand along the sharp plane of his cheek. He moved his head into her touch and kissed her palm. "I treasured them while I had them."

"I am glad," he said gently. Kivan was silent a long moment, simply holding her, but then he slipped his other arm around her and tightened his embrace. "Do you –" He broke off, struggling, but then framed it again. "Do you remember when I gave them to you?"

Rain tilted her head back so she could see his expression. His jaw was taut, and there was pain in the set of his mouth, but his dark, dark eyes were fixed on her with an intense, poignant love. She swallowed tightly. "Of course, beloved," she whispered. "I will never forget."

Then her thoughts whirled back to the grey, cobblestoned road outside the mighty gates of Baldur's Gate, and Rain's gaze went distant in vivid memory.

"Rain, you can't let her do this, you _cannot_!"

Stunned, not by Kivan's angry outburst, but by the sheer spite in what this bitch, this Imanel Silversword, was doing to him, Rain stared at the ranger, numb with sick horror. He glared right back. There was a wild light in his too-bright eyes, verging on madness, and beneath the thick war paint smeared over his chin and brow, his rugged face was a mask of vengeful fury.

But there was something else there, too.

_A plea_.

Beyond the rage, beyond the bitterness and loathing that were notdirected at her, Kivan was pleading with her, begging for help. Rain saw his grief, saw his unbearable anguish, and felt something wrench open inside her. She held his eyes a long moment. Silently, she sent him an unspoken message, hoping he would understand it through his tormented blood-haze.

_I will never betray you_.

In calm, deadly control, Rain turned back to the vindictive woman who had dared to taunt Kivan with the bow once gifted to him by his dead wife, flaunting the beautiful weapon in her knowing, cruel hands. Rain eyed Imanel steadily. Without dropping her gaze, she sized up the length of road between her opponent and herself, knowing she could have her twin longswords drawn and the steel slicing into Imanel's fine elven chain in an instant. The woman stared back at her arrogantly. There was a contemptuous tilt to Imanel's chin, her hip cocked in supreme confidence, and Rain recognised the fallen ranger for the cold killer she was.

But Rain was a killer too. An efficient one now. She'd had to learn quickly, after Gorion's murder.

The bounty hunter didn't worry her, despite her brash confidence. It was her wolves. The pack gathered about their mistress, growling low in their throats at the small band arrayed on the road before them. Rain glimpsed movement to her right, and then the tiny wink of a small throwing knife Coran had slipped into his hand. On her other side, Kivan was tense and ready, his longbow clenched in his white-knuckled fingers.

"Well?" Imanel demanded. There was a sneer on her lips, and her tilted elven eyes were narrowed on Rain. "Are you going to join me or not? Hand him over, and let me cut his throat."

At that, all of Rain's pure, black hatred poured through her. It swept her up, savage and strong. With sudden violence, she wanted to rip Imanel apart, to plunge a dagger into her foul, black heart.

"If I were you," she said with silky, deceptive mildness, "I would return Kivan's bow, and then get down on my knees and beg his forgiveness. For I warn you, Imanel Silversword, that you are _this_ close to me cutting your throat instead."

For emphasis, Rain took a single step forward. Just one. And though her hands were by her sides, not yet resting on her blade-hilts, her body was poised and lethal, promising aggression. Her eyes glittered with a feral light.

Imanel hissed a warning at her. She raised Kivan's bow, and reached for an arrow in her quiver. The snarling wolves strained around her. "You are young and stupid, I see," she said scornfully, trying to bait her. "As pathetic as he is."

Rain was unmoved. "Young I might be, but I am not stupid. I will not turn my back on a friend."

Her words rang in the tense silence that abruptly descended over the road. The slate clouds raced overhead, driven by a stiff breeze, and there was a flurry of rain on the cobblestones, striking Rain's bare head. She ignored it. She stared at Imanel coldly, daring her to draw first, and the wind keened in her ears.

"_Rain_."

Suddenly, Kivan was right beside her, so quick and close that she nearly took a startled step backwards. Surprised, she looked up into his fierce face as he snatched at her hand, taking her fingers in a tight, painful grip. His sable curls were tossed about his face in wild disarray, and his ragged cloak whipped about him with ferocious violence, but the jet eyes that bored into hers were not mad or fevered, not insane.

"Rain," he rasped again. His fingers squeezed tighter. "Mellonamin. Foe of my foe, and friend of my friend, this I vow to you – by the first sapling that rose where Shilmista now stands, and by the last shadow it will cast before all things end, I _swear_ to give my blood for you."

His heated declaration caught her completely off guard. She stared up at him, dazed, feeling as though the world was suddenly reeling around her. She felt the sharp throb in her hand from somewhere far away. Taking a deep breath, she tried to find the right words to honour his vow, but then Imanel's mocking laughter grated in her ears, and Kivan dropped her hand as though burned.

"My, my," Imanel said, her eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "How touching. That was a fine display, Kivan. And yes, you will be spilling your blood for her very, very soon." Her malicious smile slipped from her lips. She pointed at the wet road in front of her, gesturing with her arrow, and now she was all-business. "Come here, Kivan, and kneel. _Kneel_, and die."

Rain had heard enough. With a furious cry, she pulled her longswords from her scabbards and took a fluid, dancing step forward, but there was no time to engage Imanel, for one of the wolves leaped at Rain, snapping for her throat. She twisted sideways and managed to flank it in a quick turn, beginning her kensai dance with death. Her blades sliced through the air and opened up a long gash in the wolf's side. It howled, a high blood-curdling sound, and launched for her again, its bared teeth snapping at her face.

Though Rain brought her swords up and crossed them, shielding her throat from the beast's attack, its fangs sank deep into her forearm. She screamed in agony. The wolf shook its head in a blood-frenzy, trying to rip her arm off. Her fingers, suddenly nerveless, opened uselessly, and her sword clattered to the stone road.

Somehow, Rain kept hold of her other blade. Through the red haze of the terrible fire in her mangled arm, she hacked at the wolf's throat, trying to slice her steel through its thick ruff. Then Khalid was beside her, burying the point of his sword in the wolf's neck. It shuddered in its death throes, mercifully releasing her bloodied flesh.

"Look left!"

She registered Coran's shout just in time. Another wolf hurled itself at her, and she tried to leap away, but her shock from the wolf's mauling made her stiff and awkward. Her foot slipped on the wet road. Stumbling, she raised her remaining blade as the beast fell upon her, but two arrows whirred through the air from close range, from opposite directions. One embedded itself in the wolf's chest, the other pierced the snarling head. It dropped to the road and lay still.

There were still four more, swarming over Ajantis and Khalid, but their plate armour was sturdy, and the men were holding the wolves at bay. Rain blinked past the driving rain soaking her hair and skin and righted herself. Clutching her torn arm protectively to her chest, blood dripping in scarlet runnels down to her elbow, she gripped her longsword in her good hand and circled behind one of the frenzied wolves, using her adrenaline to push through her agony to finish the beast. She drove the steel tip deep into its spine, at the base of its neck. The wolf spun, yellow eyes blazing up at her, but Rain gritted her teeth and bore down with all her weight, pushing through bone. The wolf sank to its knees and collapsed onto its side.

Racked by pain, Rain braced her boot on the dead animal and freed her sword with a trembling arm. She glanced around through the curtain of rain, and was surprised to see that the battle was finished. The rent corpses of wolves lay strewn over the road. Turning, Rain hunted with pain-glazed eyes for Imanel.

The bounty hunter, too, was already dead. She lay on her back on the cold, uncaring road, her body twisted at an awkward angle. Blood soaked into her wet golden hair. The hilt of Coran's slender knife protruded from her throat, but Rain didn't think his blade was what killed her. It was the three arrows sprouting from her chest. They were each perfectly aimed, a show of superb marksmanship. The barbed heads had punctured straight through her chainmail to pierce her heart. Rain knew the arrows were Kivan's; it was his fletching that glistened in the falling rain, the short feathers too white, too pure, for their ultimate dire purpose. There was something unspeakably sad about the way Deheriana's bow had fallen from her dead fingers, lying crushed on the road beneath Imanel's body.

There was a rustle of wet wool beside Rain. She turned her head, still holding her gashed arm to her blood-streaked tunic, but forgot about her own excruciating pain as Kivan took another slow, dazed step forward, moving beyond her. He looked like a man walking to the gallows. His black curls lay plastered to his head and neck, and the rain smeared his war paint down his cheeks and nose, but he made no move to raise his green hood. Instead, he took slow steps towards his wife's bow as though moving in a dream, through a surreal, watery reality.

Rain's breath caught in her throat. Painfully, she watched as he reached Imanel and nudged her corpse aside with the toe of his boot, indifferent. Then he leaned over and pulled out his longbow from beneath her. He made a sharp sound, high and keening, as his scarred fingers stroked along the lovely wood, relearning it, and Rain felt a terrible, knifing twist in her breast. Kivan staggered to his feet then, his dark head bowed over his bow, and began to walk away. Rain stared after him, anguished.

But he didn't go far. He couldn't seem to. His legs buckled beneath him, and he sprawled on his knees in the saturated grass of the roadside, looking like a wretched, broken thing in his tattered, patchwork cloak. And there, in the sheeting rain, he cradled Deheriana's bow tightly to his chest and began to shake, his grief pouring free at last.

Rain swallowed past the sudden knot in her throat. She swallowed again, trying to keep her composure. Then it was a lost cause as her hot tears spilled over, misting in her rain-slick vision, and she choked back a sharp, miserable sob as she grieved for the ranger.

His stumbling to his knees seemed to break the awful, stunned paralysis that had come over the party. People began to move, to clean their weapons and put them away. Rain nursed her savaged arm and pulled up her cloakhood with her uninjured hand. She tried to wipe the water from her eyes.

"Rain? Sweetling?" Coran appeared by her side, looking concerned. He took one look at her torn sleeve and winced in sympathy. "Ouch, that looks nasty. Come my dear. Let's have our lady druid tend to your wounds, and restore your pretty flesh."

Jaheira was less sympathetic. "You will insist on running around without armour," she admonished as she examined the deep punctures in Rain's arm. Her lacerated skin was a mess of blood and torn muscle. "_Now_ will you heed sensible advice?"

With the throbbing pain she was in, and her heartache for Kivan, Rain was in no mood for being lectured. "Next time," she forced out through clenched teeth, "I will be quicker."

The druid sighed. "Stubborn child," she muttered under her breath, but she didn't seem to have any true desire for an argument either. She flickered her green eyes towards the lonely, bedraggled form of Kivan. "This needs bandaging," she said instead. "Hold still while I clean it."

Rain suffered her ministrations mutely. Sitting on the sodden road, huddled in her wet cloak, she flinched as Jaheira did her best to heal her, winding a gauze tightly around her arm. Imoen sat across from her in an uncharacteristic silence. Rain glanced up as Khalid joined them, laying a friendly, almost fatherly hand on her good shoulder. "You…you did a g..good thing for him, I think," he said gently. "He may n..not thank you now, but one day, h..he will."

Khalid's mild, thoughtful wisdom made Rain gaze at him gravely. "It doesn't feel like a victory," she said softly, Kivan's anguish piercing her to the core.

"P..perhaps not. But a vic...victory it still is."

Rain tried to hold onto that as the sombre group gathered, preparing to leave. But as she alone approached Kivan, her footfalls quiet in the grass, she had a hard time believing it.

"Kivan?" she called softly. He gave no sign that he had heard her. She knelt down in front of him, carefully, and looked into his downturned face. His eyes were closed and he rested his paint-smeared brow on the smooth curve of the bent bow.

"Come, mellonamin," she said very gently. "Come with me now. We will go to the city and find an inn, and then you can be on your own. But come, now. Come with me."

For a moment, she wondered if he heard her at all. He didn't move a muscle.

Then, with terrible, painful slowness, Kivan raised his head and looked at her.

No, not at her, Rain realised. _Through_ her. His black eyes were glassy, seeing a nightmare through the distant span of years as though it was happening right now. Rain's sorrow choked her throat. The rain spattered between them, drumming on the ground.

"Come, my friend," she whispered again, her voice breaking, and this time, Kivan obeyed. He struggled to his feet, mud on his cloak and breeches, and stood woodenly as Rain rose to lay a light, guiding hand on his shoulder. He suffered himself to be led, saying absolutely nothing.

Rain had been wrong to think he was a man going to the gallows.

Kivan walked as a man already dead.


	2. Ribbons  Part II

RIBBONS – PART II

Rain stood in the water sheeting the smooth, worn cobblestones in the street outside the Elfsong, gazing up at the tavern's painted wooden sign through the rain falling steadily past her hood. She was cold and clammy. The puddles soaked up through the soles of her leather boots, squelching uncomfortably whenever she took a step, and her thick cloak was a heavy, wet mass of dripping wool. Gravely, she eyed the inn's shuttered blue casements. The high, merry notes of a fiddle reached her ears, and the muffled hum of many voices, and it was clear the Elfsong was doing a brisk business on this late, grey afternoon. Rain assessed the two-storey building. At first glance, the tavern appeared reputable enough, with its hewn stone walls, the colour of sand, and the bright window-boxes overflowing with a profusion of scarlet and yellow flowers. But when she looked more closely, she saw the cracked and bubbling paint, and the black grime that stained the slate roof around the chimneys.

"This is the place you recommend?" she asked Coran, a tiny frown knitting her brow.

The thief laughed, low and amused. "Sweetling," he replied, using that overly fond, almost-patronising tone that irritated her so much, "you asked for the nearest tavern. And here she is; the Elfsong, a veritable queen among courtesans."

Rain flickered him a doubtful look. Pretending to ignore it, Coran folded his arms across his chest and rocked back onto his heels a little, making a show of admiring the inn. He slanted her a quick glance then, and a wry smile twisted his lips. But it lacked his usual warmth, and his smile did not reach his eyes. Not this time.

"She is a favoured haunt of travellers like ourselves," he remarked. "Thieves, bards, and gamblers too. Oh, and mercenaries, looking for work in the Gate." He paused, and now the smile playing across his lips was ironic. "We should all get along famously."

Rain didn't reply. There was no room for laugher in her now, no capacity for smiles or forced banter, not even if she went through the motions. She felt nothing but a bleak, dark misery, awash in Kivan's sorrow.

She could feel it ebbing from him in dim, painful waves, shivering raw and wounded into her elven consciousness. It was almost unbearable. It was not just the physical manifestation of his fresh grief; his brittle, stilted silence, his ferocious gripping of Deheriana's longbow as though if he let go, he would fall apart at the seams.

It was the ragged, twisting wound in his elven soul, in his spirit. That Rain could sense him at all, even faintly, told her how much his control was failing.

Normally, Kivan was closed to the Spirit. Unreachable. Unknowable.

Shut off from the world.

For her part, Rain was as an infant when it came to sharing her innermost self with her kin, through the invisible soul-bonds, for that part of her had never been nurtured at Candlekeep. But she still had her natural elven senses. Just as she was _aware_ of Kivan's anguish, seeping through the Spirit, she could not draw back and close herself off, protect herself. She didn't know how.

Rain shivered. Anxious, helpless, she curled her cold fingers into tight fists. With a sharp pang of urgency, she realised how close Kivan was coming to losing himself entirely.

Coran misinterpreted her silence. "Will this be acceptable, my dear?" he asked with a distinct edge to his voice. "Or must we walk longer through this dreary weather, and find somewhere more suited to your tastes?"

It wasn't fair, and he knew it.

Stung, Rain shot him a reproachful glance, then looked away from him. She was more hurt by his remark than she should be. His prickly temper was the result of what he would also be sensing from Kivan, she knew, but still, there was no reason for Coran to take it out on her.

Swallowing tightly, Rain stepped past him and headed for the door. "It is fine," she said flatly, and ignored Coran's heavy, apologetic sigh.

She gained the wide stone step and reached for the door handle, wincing at the dull ache in her bandaged arm, but Ajantis got there first. For a man armoured in such heavy steel plate, his sword at his side and the emblazoned Ilvastarr shield hanging at his back, the young paladin moved with surprising agility. He looked down at her from his far taller height and gave her a grave, courteous smile, and opened the door for her.

"My lady," was all he said.

Rain looked back, seeing the kindness in his humble, pleasant face, and the way the skin crinkled around his brown eyes when he smiled at her. "Thank you."

Inside the front taproom, the air was almost unbearably warm, and rank with the smell of stale, sour ale and damp, musty clothes. Rain wiped her sodden boots on a coarse straw mat laid across the scuffed floorboards. She moved to one side as Imoen entered behind her, allowing more room for the others, and cautiously scanned the tavern.

It was just as busy as Rain had feared. Patrons milled between the door and the bar, tankards of wine and ale in their hands, and more folk lounged at tables and dim booths; drinking, dicing and playing cards.

And whoring.

There were more than a few heavily-painted, provocative women among the mix of inebriated men, sitting in laps with their white arms draped around necks, their smiling lips red with carmine. Lace peeked from beneath their ruffled skirts, hitched up thighs. Rain eyed their conquests warily as the first bleary glances fell her way. Sure enough, the drunken shouts and propositions began, and she pointedly ignored the crude calls from a nearby table of rough, liquor-soaked men to come and sit on their knees. Instead, she dropped her limp hood and shook out her damp hair, water dripping from the saturated hem of her cloak.

"You forgot to mention the _ladies_," she murmured as Coran slipped up behind her. Deliberately, the thief cupped a possessive hand on her shoulder and turned a dangerously bright, edged smile on the louts leering at Rain and Imoen.

Coran shrugged. "I _did_ say the Elfsong was a queen among courtesans. Believe me, my dear, this is much better than the Blushing Mermaid."

Imoen sent him a suspicious look. "This isn't a brothel, is it?" she muttered.

"Of course not, my darling dove. The innkeeper, here, might turn a blind eye, but that is as far as it goes. The courtesans are good for business." Coran switched his attention back to Rain, and tightened his fingers in her wet cloak. "Stay close to me sweetling," he advised, "and pretend you are mine. I am well known here."

For once, Rain didn't shrug him off. Feeling uneasy, her worry spiking, she turned back towards the threshold as Ajantis pulled the door firmly closed behind him. Her anxious gaze strayed beyond Khalid, beyond Jaheira, to the sodden, cloaked form of Kivan.

Her heart gave a sick, painful lurch.

The ranger stood apart. Rain knew how much he disliked crowds, the noise and crushing mass of people, and in here, there was no retreat. He stood utterly still, so rigid that he could almost have been cut from stone. Blank, stiff, he shed rainwater from his dank green cloak onto the Elfsong's wooden floor, heedless of the water pooling at his feet. The smeared war paint dripped from his chin. Though his eyes were nearly hidden from her, his hood drawn forward to shield his face, Rain could see Kivan's harsh, determined intensity in his locked jaw and hard mouth, putting everything he had into maintaining what little control he had left.

In the taproom, surrounded by so many other people, Rain's intuitive grasp of the Spirit was confused and overwhelmed; diminished. She could no longer sense his grief. It might have been a relief, but at the stark pain in his face, Rain knew he was about to crack.

Swiftly, she reacted, pulling away from Coran's touch. She caught Jaheira's eye. "I will see to our rooms," she said grimly.

Jaheira gave her a tired nod. "That would be good."

She moved away through the press of people, Coran flanking her protectively. He elbowed aside a tipsy merchant and cleared a space for her at the long counter. With a quick grin, he fished a gleaming cold coin out of a hidden pocket in his cloak and beckoned to the harried barman. Rain examined the sticky rings left by someone's tankard on the bar-top. She kept her distance, careful not to lean against the counter, but Coran had no such qualms. He lounged against it, his elbows on the bar, and eyed the large kegs of ale and bottles of wine with satisfaction.

"The one thing the Elfsong _does_ have going for it is the wine," he told her, turning his conspiratorial smile on her. "You'll find more elven wine here than most places in the Gate. Drink?" he asked hopefully.

"Let's get our rooms first."

He sighed. "You are right, of course, my very sensible, level-headed beauty." He broke off as the innkeeper finally headed their way, fixing Coran with a long, dark scowl.

"You again," the stout man said gruffly. He pulled a damp cloth from his belt and buffed it across the counter, removing the grimy rings. "Whaddya want?"

The thief smiled at him enigmatically and brandished his coin. "Lodgings for the night, my good man. The better suites, mind. Not the flea-ridden bed you tried to sell me last time."

The innkeeper gave him a sour look. "You'll need more gold than that." He turned his attention to Rain, looking her over as though he was pricing goods at a market. She stiffened. "Just the one?"

"No," she said tersely. Coran chuckled, trying to look indulgent, but his merry smile was strained. "Four rooms, please."

The aleman grunted and turned his back, moving away to a wooden panel behind the bar where a series of slender keys with metal tags hung on hooks. He ran his thick fingers over them, ignoring some, choosing others.

"You know," Coran drawled as the innkeeper selected four keys and began to wander back, "one of these days, you should give good thought to what I can give you, sweetling. Just say the word, lovely Rain, and I will lay all the delights of Faerun at your feet."

For a long moment, Rain was silent. She avoided his shrewd eyes as her throat closed up, and a familiar sadness came over her. She was well aware of Coran's whimsies, and his brazen flirtations, but his dogged persistence when it came to her seemed more...genuine than she would have expected. Rain honestly believed he would have given up by now. He was cheerful and good-natured, an unrepentant rascal, and on most days, he could make her laugh. But, as Rain already knew full well, her foolish heart yearned for another.

It did not matter that her love would never be returned.

Nor did it matter that Kivan would never see her as she did him, never look upon her with the soft, deep eyes of a man in love.

There were just some things that…simply were. Rain did not wish this on herself. If she could change her feelings, she would, but she was beginning to understand that there was a grave difference between the burning, unrequited passions of youth – as Jaheira so eloquently put it – and the steady, selfless love of an unexpectant heart. Rain knew where she lay in this. Her love for the grim, implacable ranger might not be wise, but she _was_ trying to be wise in all other things. So she buried her deep, private pain, something she did automatically by now, and busied herself by reaching under her cloak to open up her leather coin purse.

"You will need to share with Ajantis tonight," she said as she counted out the gold demanded by the innkeeper, keeping her voice remarkably even.

"Oh?" Coran arched an unimpressed brow. "How disappointing."

Rain used his tartness as a diversion. She considered him carefully as the barman took her coins and slanted her a slightly-less gruff nod, and slid the keys across the counter. "You really don't like him, do you," she observed mildly. She passed Coran one of the keys and took up the rest.

"Who, Ajantis?" Coran snorted as he turned around to follow her through the throng. "The boy blushes like a maid whenever you look at him. Did you see him today, practically tripping over his own feet to open the door for you? Hah! No finesse whatsoever."

Rain shook her head, not about to get involved in their bickering. She looked towards the door as she weaved between the tables, the keys in her hand, and her chest squeezed painfully tight as she caught sight of Kivan.

He was still sunk deep in his heavy hood; so daunting, so dour, that anyone who would even think to make conversation with him would find their words choking and dying in their throat. The strain of being in the taproom for so long was taking its toll on him. He was so rigid that a tense, shaky tremor went through his hands where he gripped his wife's bow, and Rain suddenly knew he was on the cusp of simply turning on his heel and walking straight back out the Elfsong's door, away into the growing darkness and the wind and rain. If he did that, she knew, he might not stop walking.

Rain did _not_ want that to happen.

Determined, she headed for him, but Coran stalled her first. The thief snaked out his arm and turned her, making her stop to look up into his face. "What –?" she began.

Coran shook his head to silence her. "He won't want your pity," he warned her in a low, tense voice. "Be careful, Rain. You wear your sympathy too openly. Save your pity for the weak, for those who need it. Yon ranger is not one of them."

She gazed at Coran quizzically, frowning. "Kivan is the last person I would ever think of as being weak," she informed Coran, though she heard his warning. "He may not want my pity, but that doesn't mean that I shouldn't care." She raised her brows at him. "Shall we go?"

Coran nodded reluctantly and released her. She stepped around a lurching drunk and gained the threshold, seeing Jaheira's stifled sigh of relief. Rain turned towards Kivan. Though he never moved, his jet eyes cut to her from beneath his hood, suddenly aware of her. His dark gaze – still glazed, still brittle – focused a notch, and Rain hid her own sharp relief as he seemed to respond a little. She held out one of the keys to him.

"Here, mellonamin," she said quietly.

Kivan's gaze dipped to her pale hand. He stared down at the key, as though trying to register what it meant. Then his eyes jerked back to her face. Swiftly, he took the key in an abrupt, brusque movement, his long fingers snatching at the metal tag. He turned then, and his dishevelled, muddied cloak brushed against her as he strode for the stairs at the far end of the taproom.

Rain watched him go and sighed wearily, hoping that solace would find him.

Shivering with cold, Rain handed another key to Khalid and followed more slowly in Kivan's wake, wanting to be rid of her saturated pack and cloak. Her companions joined her. Tired, and with little conversation, they took the stairs up to the tavern's first floor, glancing at the painted numbers on the doors as they passed the first rows of chambers. The corridor turned to the left. Rain followed it, rounding the corner, but then pulled up short as her bemused gaze fell upon Kivan, wondering why he was still standing in the hall.

Then she saw the glint of metal on the scarlet carpet at his feet, and she understood.

His head swung her way. For a brief, uncertain moment, they stared at one another, and then Imoen and Ajantis turned the corner together, the little dark-haired thief letting out a yelp of surprise as she stumbled into Rain.

Instantly, Kivan moved. His step was quick and deft, with the fluid grace Rain had come to expect of him. The long folds of his wet cloak neatly concealed the key.

"Hey, watch it!" Imoen complained. She nudged Rain sharply in the side and huffed out a breath.

"Sorry," Rain muttered, but she was barely paying attention to her childhood friend. Her eyes locked with Kivan's.

The ranger's rugged face was carefully neutral. He consciously relaxed, as though merely waiting for them, and adopted a patient pose, clasping his arms loosely around the beautiful bow that had been a wedding gift from his dead wife. His other longbow lay forgotten across his shoulder, slung over his pack. He watched Rain calmly.

Briefly, she toyed with her options. She could either pretend she hadn't seen the fallen key, and walk on by, which might be what Kivan expected of her, given his formidable mood.

Or, she could call his bluff and risk his anger, dare his harsh rebuke.

_He won't want your pity._

Nor would he want his weakness revealed.

She knew Coran was right. She also sensed the sudden sharpness in the thief's razored gaze as he, too, rounded the corridor with Jaheira and Khalid, and saw her looking at Kivan.

Then Rain remembered Kivan's fierce vow to her on the street outside the city, his pledge of loyalty.

_I swear to give my blood for you._

And in that moment, Rain realised that something very small, very subtle, but irrevocably important, had altered between them this day. There were other ways that she could repay his loyalty in kind.

She made her decision.

Handing Imoen the key to their room, Rain carefully slipped her pack over her injured arm and shrugged out of the leather straps. "Im, do you mind taking my pack to our room?"

Imoen looked at her askance. "Sure," she said slowly, "why not." She hefted Rain's belongings and turned away with a small shrug.

Rain began walking, in step with their party, but felt disassociated, her mind carefully blank. She didn't want to overthink this. She let the others pass her and raised her blue eyes to Kivan, gazing at him with a sure, calm steadiness that suddenly felt natural, felt right. He stared back down at her warily.

"Your key, ranger," she said, somehow falling into a wry kind of tone that was fond, but not too-familiar, that would make him flinch away. "Let me help you, mellonamin. I promise you, I will not stay long."

Kivan hesitated. He frowned and gave her a long, grave look, searching her face closely, and Rain made herself stand very still before his scrutiny, keeping her expression open to him. She had no ulterior motive; nothing to hide.

At length, he gave her a curt nod and stepped backwards, revealing the key. It lay on the damp carpet between them. "Fine," he said hoarsely.

Rain felt a sudden, surprised relief. She concealed it from him by stooping to the floor and closing her cold fingers around the key, feeling the bite of the metal tag in her palm. Without looking at him, she fitted the key to his locked door and turned it, hearing a sharp click as the bolt slid out. She withdrew the key and opened the door inwards to his cold, dark chamber.

He slipped past her without a word. She stood in the doorway cautiously, letting her keen elven eyes adjust to the shadows within the room. There was a wide bed, made up with a blue brocade coverlet, and a small table beneath the chamber's only window, the wooden casement latched against the driving rain. Tinder was stacked neatly in the unlit hearth. Kivan moved to the patterned rug before the cold fireplace, but there he just…stopped, doing nothing else at all. He dripped water onto the floor. A heavy, grievous silence descended as he simply stared down into the empty hearth, unable to gather the strength to help himself now that he was finally within the shelter of his murky room, gone to ground.

Rain sighed, her eyes softening.

Leaving the door ajar, she stepped lightly into his room and went to him. "Give me your pack," she ordered, not touching him.

He stiffened. "I can do this myself."

Rain glanced at him, at his tense jaw and resentful eyes, and somehow found a tiny, ironic smile on her lips. "I know you can," she replied, "but will you?"

He didn't answer. He did, however, lift his chin a fraction, stiff with a stubborn male pride, and Rain knew her arrow had found its mark.

"Come, Kivan," she said more gently. "Do not fight me. I will be gone soon enough."

Strangely, he relented. Without relinquishing Deheriana's longbow, still holding it jealously, he reached up with one hand and drew his other bow over his head, offering it to Rain as though not quite sure what to do with it. She leaned it against the thick stone of the undressed wall. His quiver followed, and then his heavy pack, which he set down himself on the wooden floor near the fireplace. Kivan just looked at her then, waiting.

Rain nodded at his sodden attire. "Your cloak, too."

His lips twitched. "Now you expect me to undress as well?" he demanded, and she couldn't tell if he was angry or oddly amused.

She snorted and turned back to the fireplace, not waiting for him to comply. "Just your cloak," she assured him. "And your boots," she added as she considered her own drenched feet.

Kneeling gracefully, moving her long scabbards out of the way, Rain held her hands out over the tinder and summoned a simple spell, calling _fire_. Instantly, flames sprang up on the dry wood, crackling in a fierce, hungry rush along the twigs. A ruddy orange light flickered over the room. She fed more wood to the fire, expertly building the fuel-base as Kivan himself had taught her, and listened quietly as the ranger unclasped his cloak and shrugged it off. She heard his wet boots on the bare floor as he hung the cloak on a hook and came back to her. He settled himself on the rug behind her, cross-legged, and said nothing.

"Your boots," she reminded him mildly.

This time, she heard the soft hiss of his exhaled breath. He stretched out one leg, beginning to loosen the tight knots, and she finally shifted around to face him as he fumbled with the ties, his fingers still awkward with that earlier, unusual tremor. His lovely bow lay across his lap, cradled on his knees.

Kivan watched her as he tugged at his boot. The leather peeled away from his clammy breeches with difficulty, as soaked as she had imagined, and it suddenly struck Rain how terribly intimate this felt, as Kivan bared his damp foot to the blazing fire.

A flush rose to Rain's cheeks. Swiftly, she glanced away, and hoped that if he even noticed it, he would put it down to the hot fire at her back.

"You're wet."

His remark was so unexpected, but so matter-of-fact, that Rain felt a short, strangled laugh lodge in her throat. She looked back to find him examining her curiously. His black curls were lank, sticking to the sharp, angular planes of his face, and his war paint was nearly gone.

"So are you," she shot back, and then she smiled, very slightly.

Rain rose and took her leave, knowing his grim forbearance would be wearing thin. In fact, it surprised her that he had even tolerated her at all. Now that was she going, she could sense his sudden upwelling of painful grief, held in check only because she had been with him. His terrible, tormented suffering returned.

Quietly, Rain laid the key on the bed and looked down at him, at his dark, bowed head silhouetted before the fire. "I will send up wine and food," she said softly, though she doubted he heard her. She doubted he would even touch his plate.

Kivan was silent; as silent as the grave.

At the door, Rain paused. "Utu'seere, mellonamin," she breathed faintly, in her broken, clumsy elvish. Then she pulled the door closed and left him to his dark dreams and old nightmares, and the aching loss that would never die.

_Find peace, my friend_.


	3. Ribbons  Part III

RIBBONS – PART III

In the morning, Rain sat on a padded leather bench at one of the booths set against the tavern's long front wall, her hands wrapped around a hot mug of tea. She gazed silently out the window to the cobblestoned street outside, introspective. The day had dawned bright and clear. The tavern's blue casements were thrown wide, letting in the cool, dewy air, and Rain felt the crispness of the light breeze on her skin, stirring her loose hair. She had no urge to close the window. Instead, she regarded the sunlight where it slanted across the road, driving away the shadows, and wondered if Kivan had found any rest at all.

He was not here, of course. She had seen nothing of him since she closed the door to his room last night. But she thought of him often, her mind continually straying from the Iron Throne and the investigations they needed to conduct today, back to him.

Back to the way he had looked with his bowed, defeated head and his bow across his knees, immersed in his grief before the fire.

Then there was how he had allowed Rain to tend to him, in her own small way. It still surprised her that Kivan had even let her near him.

Thinking, remembering, Rain swallowed thickly and stared blindly down into the depths of her tea. She sat, not drinking. The conversation of her three companions washed around her. She listened with half an ear as Imoen announced her intention to find the nearest market.

"We can sell our rings and gems now," she was saying eagerly to Coran and Ajantis as she sawed through a loaf of warm bread, using her old, blunting table-knife. "The ones we don't want to keep, anyway," she added. Rain moved her mug towards the window, away from Imoen's enthusiastic elbow. "With what we have found, we can buy some better equipment. This knife is just about useless," she said in disgust, gesturing with the dulled implement in her hand. "I want a new one."

Coran gave her a speculative look from his place opposite Rain in the very corner of the booth, his body turned at an angle towards the taproom. He leaned against the stone wall, slouched and nonchalant, but Rain could read the thief's irritation in his overt physical withdrawal from the paladin, seated beside him on the bench. Ajantis was little better. Though he was impeccably polite, trying to make conversation with Imoen and Rain, his stiffness was telling; he disliked Coran as much as the thief disliked him.

"You may not have much luck if you are looking for good steel," Coran remarked. "This iron crisis will have affected everyone. Don't be surprised if the hawkers try to sell you inferior blades, and charge you handsomely for it." He lifted a hand and idly examined an old scar on his palm. "With all the bandit attacks on caravans and the rumours of war with _Amn_," he said, deliberately putting a sour, sneering note into his voice as he mentioned the southern nation where Ajantis' allegiances lay, "you might find they want to keep anything decent for themselves. I know I would, given the situation."

"You would," Ajantis muttered, his courtesies failing him in the face of Coran's insult. Then he saw the small crease of Rain's brow, for this growing rivalry between them troubled her, and the young man sighed. "But there is no harm in looking," he said to Imoen.

"Glad you see it my way," Imoen said blithely, ignoring the byplay. She pulled a small ceramic bowl across the table towards her and scraped off a long curl of butter with her knife. She spread it thickly over her bread, the butter sinking into the warm slice.

Coran didn't bother to conceal the scorn on his lips. "What do you think, sweetling?" he said to Rain, using his pet name for her again, to irritate Ajantis.

Rain lifted her mug and sipped her hot tea. "I think you may be right about the iron," she said carefully, "but I would also like to look around the market."

He shrugged. "Your wish is my command, my dearest lady," he intoned, mocking the man beside him with his exaggerated courtly civility.

The young paladin scowled, but this time, he did not retort. He gathered his temper and proved himself the better man. "You look tired," he told Rain kindly, training his earnest eyes on her pale face. "Did you not sleep well last night, Rain?"

_How could I?_

She thought it, sad and unusually bitter, but she could hardly tell him that she had lain awake for the better part of the night worrying about Kivan, tossing and turning miserably in her sheets. "I slept well enough," she made herself say, and it seemed to placate Ajantis, for now. He gave her a slow, solemn nod.

"Have you seen Kivan today?" he asked her quietly.

Rain shook her head. "I don't think he has come down from his room."

Ajantis' expression turned grave. "Let us hope this day treats him more fairly," the squire offered, and Rain was grateful for his sincerity.

"Let's hope so," she murmured. She took another swallow of her tea, to put an end to the conversation.

xxxx xxxx

Rain fought to contain her growing anxiety, keeping her expression very still as she leaned back against the table she had been sharing earlier, her arms folded across her breasts. She waited. The long minutes passed, stretching out into a tense, uneasy silence. The morning sun inched higher above Baldur's Gate. Imoen swung her legs restlessly where she perched on a table opposite Rain, and Coran had been quiet for some time, resting his head against the dark timber separating the booths, watching Rain.

They were _all_ watching Rain, all five of them. Looking at her as though she might hold the answers. A solution.

There was still no sign of Kivan.

Rain sighed. Pushing away from the table wearily, she bent down to retrieve her pack and slipped her arms through the straps, settling her belongings over her long, dark cloak. She squared her shoulders and steeled herself. "I will fetch him."

Jaheira nodded. "He responded to you yesterday," she said slowly, thoughtfully. Gently, with a tenderness she didn't display very often, she moved her hand to Khalid's shoulder, laying her fingers on his heavy plate. He tilted his head and gazed up at her from his seat, giving his wife a fond smile. Jaheira responded absently by stroking the nape of his neck, but her grave, green eyes never wavered from Rain. "Be careful," she cautioned her quietly.

Rain didn't ask what the druid meant.

_Do not lose your head over him_.

She nodded silently, grim. "I will be," she agreed.

Her feet took her quietly over the scarred floorboards of the Elfsong's taproom, to the stairs. She retraced her steps, bracing herself for what she might find when she knocked on his door. But as she reached the first-floor landing, her boots falling softly on the worn scarlet carpet lining the hallway, Kivan rounded the corner ahead of her, walking towards her. She paused, her steps slowing, and looked up at him tentatively, fearing what she would see in his face.

Kivan, too, slowed, though he did not stop. He looked at her as he approached, long and steady. And as Rain gazed back at him, their eyes meeting down the corridor, her heart suddenly leaped with a fierce gladness, for there was a new, unexpected gentleness in his rugged face, a sense of warmth as he regarded her. He drew closer, his forest hood down. She could see he was very tired, and his expression was strained with his sombre grief beneath the fresh, stark lines of his war paint, but he seemed…calmer somehow. More settled. Rain found herself smiling at him, joyful and unfettered.

"I was just coming to find you," she told him warmly as he drew level with her. She turned, still looking up at him, and together they headed for the stairs, unhurried.

He glanced down at her as they walked, grave again. "I am sorry for the delay," he apologised, his voice a familiar soft, husky burr. She heard the echo of yesterday's pain in it, and sensed his weary sorrow, but he was containing it better now. Managing it. "I have held you up."

She shook her head. "There is no need to be sorry," she said. "It does not matter if we start a little later today." She made no mention of last night, and neither did he, but she hadn't expected him to, anyway. Rain smiled again, more gently, as she took in the way Deheriana's longbow was settled familiarly across his shoulder and back, more a part of him than his other bow had ever been. Kivan rested the other weapon loosely on his free shoulder, his calloused fingers wrapped around the tall, curving shaft to hold it in place. "It looks well on you," Rain commented as they took to the stairs companionably, nodding towards his wife's bow. "Your longbow."

Kivan turned his dark, warm eyes on her and smiled.

It was such a rare, wonderful thing, seeing a true smile on his firm lips, and Rain grinned back at him, amply rewarded. Kivan lifted his head a little, wearing his wife's wedding gift with quiet pride.

"Rain," he said suddenly, coming to an abrupt halt on the stairs. He turned and gazed down at her very seriously. "What you did yesterday, mellonamin," he said softly, soberly. "The way you faced Imanel down. I…" He faltered, choosing his words with care. "I wanted to thank you for it, Rain. What you did for me. I have my own bow back now, what is _mine_, and Deheriana walks with me again, by my side."

The way he said her name, so gently and tenderly, did terrible, bittersweet things to Rain's heart. She said nothing, and just watched as Kivan briefly closed his eyes, struggling with his own emotion.

This, too, was rare, his letting her see his deep, painful love for his lost wife. He wasn't trying to hide the raw depths of it now, not the way he had before, keeping himself rigidly in check behind a grim, impassive mask. He opened his eyes and looked at her again.

"I made a vow to you yesterday," he said, and now his voice was firm and sure. "I meant it, Rain. I will give my blood for you. Come what may, I will watch your back, mellonamin, and see that you come to no harm."

Kivan's loyalty, Rain knew as she looked up into his grave, black eyes, was a gift. Something for her to treasure, along with his trust. She raised her chin and determined that she would be worthy of him. "And I," she said quietly, "will watch your back also, mellonamin."

He nodded, shortly, as though sealing a solemn pact. "Then let us go, and face the day. We have much to do."

xxxx xxxx

Rain wandered through the market slowly, taking in the sights of the largest, busiest marketplace she had ever seen. Everywhere she looked there was colour and noise and activity. Folk thronged the bright pavilions and stalls crammed in side by side, wagons trundling through the narrow alleys between the crates and stalls, and hawkers cried their wares from smaller hand-carts. Beregost's modest market paled in comparison. Walking carefully, trying to avoid the tight crush of people, Rain glanced up at the finely-woven tapestries and rugs hanging from tent poles and awnings, at the shimmering bolts of expensive cloth in a silk-merchant's stall. Chandlers competed with leather-workers and farmers and weapon-smiths, each trying to lure customers with their shouts and calls and hopeful offers.

She shrank back from a wiry, sly-faced man who pressed too close to her, tensing as she saw his long, loose sleeve under his dark leathers, perfect for secreting a slim dagger or a poisoned dart. Rain _never_ forgot the bounty on her head. She couldn't afford to.

Going absolutely still, her heart thumping, she waited until he passed, thinking only of her twin swords beneath her cloak, of how quickly she could draw them should a thief or assassin reveal themselves. The man disappeared around the corner, and Rain breathed out, slowly. Her pulse began to steady.

This time, she quickened her steps, heading for a less crowded area of the market where she would be able to see anyone coming. Though she did not turn her head, she was aware of Kivan shadowing her a few yards behind; not with her, but not precisely apart. He had her back, just as he had promised. It was a comforting feeling. She was never truly alone, not when each moment in this city could mean her death, and she was glad it was him guarding her right now, with his sharp archer's eyes, his quick fingers. Kivan never missed his mark.

She turned down another alley, taking her nearer to the outskirts of the market. A large knot of children milling before a bright, colourful stall caught her attention. They were all young and eager and smiling, pointing up at the hundreds of small, rainbow streamers rippling in the wind gusting down the alley, glinting and shining in the morning sunlight.

Rain laughed softly, amused.

A ribbon-seller.

His stall was all aflutter. Ribbons were tied to the awning so thickly, in so many jewelled colours, that the stall seemed a living thing, swelling and moving as the tiny pennants danced in the breeze. She drew closer, and the ribbon-seller noticed her above the heads of his small customers. He beamed at her, and beckoned.

"Come here, pretty lady, and buy a ribbon. For you, the finest silk." He reached up to where the silk ribbons floated, near the shimmering satin, and gently captured a lovely streamer hued a very deep cornflower, nearly a sapphire. It was certainly very pretty. "Blue, perhaps, for your beautiful eyes," he suggested, boldly admiring Rain's face. "Ah, no. Not blue. _This_ is what you need."

Smiling at her, the merchant moved his hand along the awning to where a matched pair of copper ribbons spiralled and twisted, the red-bronze silk glowing like liquid fire in the golden sun. The ribbons were nearly the shade of her bright hair. Rain smiled at him, and laughed when he tried to sell them to her for a gold piece, but she shook her head regretfully and moved on, thinking ruefully about how snarled her russet tresses were becoming in the fickle wind. She should have braided her hair, to keep the long locks off her face.

Soon, she came to a farmer's wife selling ripe berries from her garden. Rain drifted closer and browsed the fruit, noting how fresh they seemed. On a whim, she bought a good cupped handful of the red berries and waited as the woman bound them up in a muslin pouch, tying string around the neck of the bag. Rain thanked her and turned away.

Holding the berries, she wandered back to Kivan, putting an end to his silent, patient stalking of her. She gave him a small smile. "These are for you," she told him, holding out the pouch. The berry juices spotted the cloth with pink. "I thought you might like them."

His ebony brows shot up in surprise. "For me? Why?"

"Because I have this strange feeling that you haven't eaten since yesterday morning," she said wryly. "Am I right?"

Kivan blinked at her, startled, but then laughed very softly. At himself, she thought. "Yes," he admitted ruefully. "You would be right."

"Then here you go." She passed the berries to him.

They fell into step together, strolling through the market towards the edge of the square, and there was an easy, comfortable silence between them, neither of them speaking. They headed for a marble fountain gleaming in the sun. Rain sat on the rounded edge as Kivan leaned back against the white stone, beginning to unknot the string, and she basked in the sun, enjoying their amiable quiet, away from the bustle of the market. She looked at his thick sable curls, and his tattered green hood, and then her eyes travelled the length of his longbow, seeing the magnificent weapon for what it was.

It was truly beautiful. A long, sweeping curve; smooth, polished wood. A bowman's dream.

Rain was no archer, but she recognised the bow's grace and power. She could see why it suited him so well.

There was a tiny glinting of silver running along the belly of the shaft. She could not see it in its entirety, not with how Kivan wore the bow slung on his back, but she saw enough. There were fine elven runes, granting protection. And a flowing, iridescent script, also in elvish.

_Mela en'coiamin Kivan_.

Endearments, traced by a woman's elegant hand.

Deheriana's hand.

Abruptly, Rain choked up. She felt a rush of heat to her cheeks, and a sick, giddy sympathy, for now she understood just what it meant to Kivan to have this bow returned. It was just as he had said earlier. Deheriana walked again by his side.

She inhaled sharply; a short, painful sound. Kivan looked at her in alarm.

"Your bow," she breathed, the words catching in her throat. "It is so beautiful. Deheriana must have loved you very much."

Kivan went utterly still. Stiff, stricken, he stared down at the berries in his hands, the stained, spotted cloth now reminding Rain of blood. He was suddenly far away again; there beside her, but gone, his black eyes as glazed and empty as they had been yesterday.

"Soon, I will find her," he whispered, closing his eyes on this world, bowing his dark head. "I will rip out Tazok's heart, the way he ripped out mine, and I will find her. If I do not fall in my battle with Tazok, then I will return to Shilmista and lay down in the mists and shadows, and let them cover me. Then, I will go to her. I will find my Deheriana again."

Rain stared at him. She felt a horrible, terrible fear gathering, tightening her chest and throat. "What," she whispered, choking on it. "What do you mean?"

Kivan lifted his head and looked at her. He was so weary, but had so much grim purpose, that Rain felt a chill terror spread through her heart.

"Surely you have heard of Arvanaith," he said gently, as though speaking to a child. "Our paradise. Deheriana waits for me there. When I have avenged her, and she is satisfied with my hunt, my soul will fly free to join hers." His voice lowered, hoarsening. "Then there will be no parting us. Never again."

For a moment, Rain was speechless. Horrified, she gazed at him, fear and an awful, twisting grief clawing at her insides, making her mouth taste like ash. "Kivan, you –" She broke off, ragged. "You want to _die_?"

He just looked at her. His sharp, angular face was so grave, so pitying, that Rain did indeed feel like the child that Jaheira was always saying she was, foolish and naïve.

She began to tremble. To her absolute horror, tears sprang to her eyes, filling up and spilling over before she could stop them. Ashamed, she dropped her gaze and let her hair fall forward, trying to conceal her tears, but there was no hiding them from him now. She felt him start in surprise.

"S...sorry," she whispered, apologising as her vision went blind and her tears fell, tracking down her cheeks. "I'm sorry."

She didn't realise she was on her feet until the cobblestones seemed to tilt beneath her. She stumbled, her balance off. Then she was walking, striding rapidly away, not even seeing where she was going. And then she was running, pounding recklessly down the unfamiliar streets of Baldur's Gate, doing exactly what she was not supposed to do: putting herself in danger.

But Rain was beyond rational thought. She was beyond anything but heart-broken grief and the dreadful, miserable knowledge that when Kivan finally got his vengeance, and Tazok lay dead, so too, would he.

She couldn't bear the thought of him leaving only to die. She couldn't bear the thought that his death sentence was self-imposed, what he _wanted_.

Crying, her breaths short and frantic, Rain searched wildly for a bolthole and found a narrow strip of grass behind a high, stone wall, out of sight of the street. There she sank to the ground and buried her face in her hands, weeping.


	4. Ribbons Part IV

RIBBONS – PART IV

Rain sat tucked away in her refuge, in the narrow gap between two old, neighbouring estate walls. She watched the slow, steady inching of the sunlight down into the deep crack, illuminating the worn stone, the crumbling mortar. There was a wild tangle of crimson roses spilling along the top of the walls, sending out long, creeping vines studded with tiny, sharp thorns. The thin strip of emerald grass beneath Rain's cloak and boots remained masked in shadow.

She swallowed tightly, feeling her tears drying on her pale cheeks. She lowered her chin and stared down at her bent knees, at her heavy pack lying on the grass beside her. Silence was in her now. It was the still, grave quiet that follows a storm of grief; the time when a grim, implacable knowledge presses down and down, weighing on the mind and heart like a stone.

_Arvanaith_.

It was a terrible burden for Rain to bear. She sat there, her back to the rough wall, and absorbed Kivan's revelation, coming to terms with it. The truth of it settled deep within her. He wanted vengeance, and he wanted his wife, and he wanted nothing more than to finish this last task, to destroy Tazok. And then he would go back, back to the mists and shadows of his home, and let them swallow and cover him, just as he had said.

Rain closed her eyes sorrowfully, and accepted it.

There was nothing else she could do. She would not argue with him, or try to change his mind. She could not plead with him to stay. That would only make it harder on him, and begin to dissolve the precious, fledgling trust that was crystallising between them. What Kivan had confided today was something so intensely personal, so profoundly moving, that Rain did not want to disappoint him. So she would not. She would go back to him soon, and raise her eyes to his, and apologise and seek his forgiveness for her weakness. Then she would hold his confidence in silence. She would keep it close, locked carefully away inside her grieving heart, and she would walk on, down their darkening path.

Rain respected Kivan in every way, everything about him. She was going to respect his decisions, too.

Even if it meant that she had to remain strong and steadfast and silent when finally, he turned away to die.

She blinked back the fresh tears that stung her eyes, finding she was not yet as strong as she needed to be. They formed, welled, but did not seep past her long lashes. She wiped them away.

Perhaps this was what it meant to be an elf. To age in some fundamental but insubstantial way, earning an understanding of life and death and the world beyond this one that was different from how humans viewed things, from the perspective of their shorter lives. That was part of the utter tragedy of this. Kivan was old in terms of human years, and he had lived through a perpetual nightmare that had ground his spirit down into dust and sharpened his soul into a knife, but he was still relatively young for an elf, with many years ahead of him. Perhaps centuries. To cut his life so irrevocably short was the saddest and most difficult thing for Rain to grapple with.

Though right now, he was hardly living.

His heart had died with his lost wife.

Rain sighed, heavy and resigned, but she suddenly felt more sure of herself. She knew what she must do. She would continue to love him from afar, and support and aid him. He would make his own choices, and she would not gainsay them. Such was the responsibility of a friend.

Filled with quiet purpose, she straightened her back and unhooked her water flask from her belt, uncapping it. Carefully, she poured a stream of cool, clear liquid into her cupped palm and splashed it over her face, and then another handful, trying to rinse away the film of her tears. There was nothing she could do about her red, raw eyes. She capped her flask and clipped it to her belt again.

She fingered the tangled mess of her hair. Reaching into her pack, Rain rummaged around for her brush and combed out her locks, trying to put herself to rights. It would do. She stood, a little stiffly, her scabbards pulling down at both sides, and smoothed the long, creased folds of her thick cloak.

A scarlet rose unfurled on the stone wall before her, catching her eye. It was level with her face. The flower was vivid and perfect in its deep, velvet beauty, the petals fragrant and sweet-scented in the sun. The shaft of golden light fell just below it, creating a solid black line than ran distinctly across the hewn manor wall and tumbling vines, delineating light from shadow. It struck Rain suddenly how very beautiful that rose was, lying in the margins, glistening red in the deep heart of the crevasse. She lifted a hand and gently brushed the soft whorls of its petals with a fingertip.

Rain made a promise to herself.

Her time with Kivan was borrowed. She was going to steady her shoulders and be calm and strong, and treasure each small moment she had left with him. No false hopes. No regrets. She would simply _be_.

A tiny, grave smile passed over her lips. Reaching for the small knife she wore at her belt, she pulled the blade free of its sheath and carefully cut the scarlet rose from its twisting vine, freeing it. She nicked the thorns from the stem with the tip of her knife. When she was finished, and her blade put away, she contemplated the rose and firmed her promise squarely in her mind. She slid the stem of the flower behind her tight leather sword-belt. It was a small gem of colour beneath the opening of her dark cloak, a hint of ruby against her tunic, and she lifted her pack and turned away, carrying her promise with her.

She stepped cautiously to the edge of the narrow gap and surveyed the street.

There were not as many city-folk here as there had been at the market, but there were enough. People walked this wealthier quarter of Baldur's Gate, striding about their business. Horses clattered over the cobblestones, their iron-shod hooves ringing on the road, and closed carriages rolled past, their polished doors inked with the golds, silvers, blues and onyx of important family crests. Rain looked past them to the far side of the street. A familiar figure waited at the very corner of another grand estate, cloaked in deep forest green, his back to the brick wall and his arms crossed over his chest. His jet eyes were trained intently on Rain. He straightened, alert, and the world passed through and between them, folk moving on and heedless and by.

_Kivan_.

He must have followed her from the market. She shouldn't have been surprised, but it threw her askew, making her new sureness unravel, misting away into coils of smoke.

Rain stilled, unable to move. She hadn't expected to face him so soon.

Taking a deep breath, she collected herself as the ranger cut across the road towards her, slipping easily in-and-out between the horses and foot-traffic, moving with that light, uncanny grace he had. He reached her in seconds. He looked down at her, worried, and he searched her face very carefully, flitting his dark gaze over her eyes and cheeks, to the strain in her mouth. Kivan hesitated, concerned. In that moment, Rain saw nothing but care in his worn, anxious expression, nothing but worry for her welfare.

There was no scorn, condescension or derision. No reproach for the childish thing she had done. Just the hint of his relief as he studied her closely, and his subtle relaxing as she consciously raised her eyes to his.

It made her love him even more, his quiet sincerity and concern. And it made her hurt all over again.

"Rain?" he questioned uncertainly. "Are you… Are you alright?"

She nodded, feeling her throat tighten up again. "I will be." She said it steadily, as calmly as she had told herself she would, and Kivan gazed back at her, his black eyes softening. "I am sorry," she said remorsefully. "I should never have behaved the way I did. I was so foolish, running off like that, and I –"

Kivan shook his head swiftly, cutting off her awkward but heartfelt apology. "No, mellonamin," he said soberly. "Do not second-guess yourself. You acted as any true friend would to my news, and it is to my great shame that I did not anticipate it. I am sorry, Rain. I should have considered the impact of my words more carefully."

He was so grave, so genuine, that Rain suddenly saw the absurdity of it, the two of them standing there so tentatively and apologising profusely to the other for what had been said in faith, in trust. She found herself smiling ruefully, and she let out a quiet laugh. "Then let's both agree that we are sorry, and put it behind us." Her smile faded, and she looked up into his eyes, as earnest and grave as he was. "Thank you," she said softly, "for telling me. I am glad you did."

He smiled at her, more gently than he ever had before. Turning, he fell in beside her and ushered her forward with a light arm behind her back, his fingertips resting on her pack. "Walk with me, mellonamin." His tone was fond.

She glanced up at him, neither of them rushing back to the market, and Kivan slid his hand from her pack and curled his scarred fingers around her far shoulder. He squeezed her arm briefly through her cloak, comforting and affectionate.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked her again, not yet ready to relinquish his concern. His arm was still tentatively around her, consoling and protective.

Rain forced herself to nod. The terrible irony that it was _him_ comforting _her_ about his impending death gripped claws in her soul. She struggled with it, but then remembered her resolve.

This was one of those rare moments she would cherish.

His frank regard for her.

He was wounded and beautiful and grim and stubborn, and he cared for her, as much as he could. And for that, Rain would be grateful.

"There is something you must understand, Kivan," she said carefully, her brow knotting as she tried to express a simple truth to him in the right words. "Myself, the rest of us… We care for you, mellonamin. Anything that hurts you hurts us. And the same goes for the future, whatever path we find ourselves walking. Do not forget these small things, that we only wish to see you well."

Kivan looked down at her. There was a new respect in his rugged, painted face, a dark light in his cutting, ranger's eyes.

"Perhaps I have been on my own too long," he mused, thoughtful. "Gone my own way too long. I have almost forgotten what it is like to share such things, to give and take in return." He nodded, firm. "I will remember this, Rain, and thank you." He tightened his fingers in her shoulder one last time and let his hand fall away, back to his side.

After that, their silence was deep and comfortable, as it should be. But Rain's skin still burned from his touch, from the very nearness of him, and she gritted her teeth and bore it.

She would never tell him.

The rose pressed into the curve of her hip, a stark reminder of her vow.

xxxx xxxx

Late in the afternoon, as the sun began its blazing, golden descent into the ocean, bronzing the Sea of Swords, the party turned their backs on the busy docks and headed for the Elfsong, leaving with more questions than they had answers. Kivan briefly touched Rain's arm with his hand and slipped away into the gathering shadows, a blur of green in a cross-secting alley until he vanished from sight. She was not overly concerned. She was used to him coming and going at different times, and she knew he would return when he was ready.

At the tavern, Rain slid onto the padded bench of the same booth she had used only this morning, in the corner where she could watch the taproom and threshold, see who was arriving and leaving. She waited alone. The casements were still open, and the flowers in the wide, blue-painted box outside her window ruffled gently in the early evening breeze, stirring and whispering. The draft wafted in, making the tiny flame in the lantern on Rain's table flicker energetically, pulsing warm, leaping light over Rain's hands and face.

A serving maid came by her booth, looking impatient and harassed. The taproom was now as crowded as it had been last night. The maid set down the flagon of wine Coran had ordered, and two goblets made of a thin, dented metal – pewter, Rain thought – and bustled away as impatiently as she had arrived. But Coran himself did not return. The thief was nowhere in sight.

Rain eyed the wine rather grimly and poured herself a glass from the flagon. She cupped the large goblet in both slender hands and lifted it to her lips, taking a swallow. The wine was good. A deep, earthy vintage, flooding rich and spicy over her tongue.

She took another swallow and watched Imoen at her game of cards with a number of men, already warming up to a night of drinking and bluffing and swindling. Her friend caught Rain's eye and flashed her a cheeky, shameless grin. Rain smiled back, a glint of amusement in her eyes.

"So, lovely lady," drawled a voice above her head. "What's a fine lass like you doing on your own in here?"

Rain glanced up at the man hovering over her table, silently bracing herself for the usual drunken attention she received in taverns. She had wondered when this one was finally going to make his move. He looked like a labourer, with his brown leather vest pulled over a dingy shirt, but his tanned face seemed amiable enough, and he didn't strike Rain as being a thug. He offered her a lazy smile and leaned casually against the end of her bench.

"I am waiting for someone," she replied calmly, not inviting his further advances. "As you can see." She gestured at the empty goblet.

"Waiting for _me_, my lovely lass, and make no mistake. Your days of silent pining for the man of your dreams are over, pretty elf." The man raised his brows and grinned down at her hopefully. Behind him, his drinking companions jostled and joked at his expense, jeering at his woeful attempts to woo her. For her part, Rain laughed and shook her head, amused. He did not seem like the type to try to overpower her. More frequently than she liked, Rain had to take stern, defensive action in situations like this, but it was easier to let someone down with a small smile and a firm refusal.

"I'm afraid not," she said dryly. "I _am_ waiting for someone. But thank you," she added, seeing that she had judged him correctly, and he was a decent enough man for the Elfsong's usual, bawdy crowd.

"Ah, that's alright love. Just thought I'd give it a shot. I'm over here if you change your mind."

The labourer backed away sheepishly, and Rain scanned the taproom again, wondering if the next time she was disturbed, she would need to part the folds of her cloak and reveal her blades. She lifted her wine to her mouth again and took a discerning swallow.

There was movement at the doorway. A new patron slipped into the crowd, shrouded in a very familiar, ragged green cloak, and Rain felt a warm rush of relief as Kivan headed directly for her. She looked up at him, smiling, and he smiled back. It reached his dark, lantern-lit eyes.

"Mellonamin," he greeted her easily. Drawing his wife's bow over his head, he propped it against the edge of her booth and slid onto the leather seat beside her, wool rustling. He settled himself and nodded towards Rain's wine flagon. "You're resorting to drinking alone now, Rain?" he asked her, and there was a suspicious hint of suppressed laughter in his voice.

Rain's lips quirked into an amused grin. "Not now, ranger." She cocked a brow at him and pointedly poured wine into the second goblet. "Now you're drinking with me."

He laughed, softly, and it was a warm, relaxed sound, almost mellow. She pushed the tarnished goblet towards him across the battered table-top. Kivan took it with a nod of thanks, but did not bring it to his mouth, not yet. Instead, he reached beneath his cloak and hunted for something in his leather belt-pouch, pulling out a small object. Rain watched, bemused, as he carefully set a creased package down in front of her, the nearly-flat bundle wrapped in crinkled brown paper. She looked at the coarse string neatly tying it closed, and glanced back to him, her brows raised in question.

"This is for you," he told her, and slid the tiny packet closer to her with a long, calloused forefinger.

Her puzzlement deepened. "What is it?" she asked as she picked it up, feeling how light it was. Aside from the paper itself, there was no weight to whatever lay inside.

His mouth softened. She could feel him watching her in the flamelight, carefully observing her response. "A gift for a friend," he said quietly.

Startled, Rain jerked her eyes to his. Kivan smiled at her again, apparently amused by her surprise, and he tilted his chin towards the packet in her hands.

"Go on," he said. He leaned back against the timber booth and lounged there beside her, lifting his goblet and idly swirling the wine in small, graceful circles.

She dropped her eyes to the brown package, quizzical, and began to unwrap it, pulling off the string. The paper rustled in her hands. Turning it over, she opened up the neat, creased folds, and drew in a quick, sharp breath, amazed.

A pair of beautiful silk ribbons gleamed in the candlelight, shimmering with an enchanting fiery-red copper. Rain laughed in delight and held them up, her eyes shining.

"Oh, you didn't!" she exclaimed, bringing her laughing eyes back to Kivan. He grinned at her, pleased with himself, and studied her over the rim of his goblet.

"Do you like them?" he asked, though he knew full well that she did.

"You know I do." Smiling at him, she took up one long ribbon and lifted her shining fall of russet hair in her hands, gathering the tresses into a neat tail at her nape. The evening air brushed over her bare skin. She tied the ribbon into a double bow, so it would not work loose, and reached for the other streamer of copper silk, musing about what to do with it. Giving Kivan a quick grin, she looped the ribbon around her left wrist and tied it, letting the long, silken ends dangle from her hand like the daggered sleeves of a lady's fine gown. She lifted her wrist and admired the silk in the lantern-light.

"Very nice," Kivan remarked, satisfied.

Rain turned to him, beginning to thank him, but her grateful words stopped in her throat as Coran appeared in the noisy throng, cutting towards her with single-minded purpose. There was a furious spark in his eyes. He drew up abruptly at Rain's table, fixing her with a hard, proprietary glare, and she felt her blood run cold at the black jealously in his face.

"You wear another man's favours," he snapped. "Who gave them to you?"

She stared at him. Under that piercing, possessive glare, she felt her own anger awaken, bright and hot. _I am not yours_, she thought furiously to him.

"Who do you think?" She was cool, calm and deliberately evasive. Unless the thief guessed otherwise, she didn't want him to know the ribbons had come from Kivan. She didn't want her precious gift ruined.

Coran's mouth worked, sour and scornful. "Ajantis," he hissed. "If that _fool_ boy thinks he can win you over with a pretty bit of silk, then he's about to learn that he is wrong." He shifted his angry gaze to Kivan, gave him a tight nod, and turned on his heel, stalking from the tavern.

Rain frowned after him a long, uncertain moment, not quite sure what to say. Then she sighed, her good mood dispersing. She leaned back against the wall beside Kivan, wearily, and reached for her goblet. "I think I might have just made things worse for myself," she murmured, very softly.

She sensed Kivan angling his head to regard her. He said nothing at first, just contemplated her soberly, and Rain stared down into her dark ruby wine. Finally, she tilted her face and met his gaze. He was watching her, his head resting against the dark timber, attentive despite his casual pose. His raven hair was blacker than midnight, glinting with copper in the firelight. Long, thick curls framed his angular face. The dusk stole in from outside, drawing around them both, and Rain paused at the deep, dark look in the ranger's eyes, the distant but close-held knowledge.

"Be careful who you choose," he whispered. His voice was dry, soft and melancholy. Fleeting. "We elves… We love long in the Spirit, and without respite. Be careful, Rain. Make sure that when you do give your heart, you are certain, and you do not come to grief later."

His quiet words fell away, into their thoughtful silence, and Rain sipped her wine and stared at the bright, twisting lantern-flame. "Do I have to choose either of them?" she mused after a time, more to herself than him. She thought of the prickly, jealous rivalry springing up between Coran and Ajantis, and was troubled again.

Kivan halted the goblet before his mouth and stilled. He sent her a long, searching look, and reassessed her. "When did you become so wise?" he breathed out, slowly.

Rain lifted her head and smiled at him. It was warm, soft and gentle, and her blue eyes were teasing and fond. "When did you become so talkative?"

He opened his mouth to reply. He caught himself, unsure, but then laughed very lightly, seeing the humour in it. Kivan smiled and turned his onyx eyes upon her, his dark irises reflecting the candle-flame glowing on the table between them. "I don't know," he said ruefully. "When did I?"

Rain tipped her head back and laughed. "I don't think it matters," she assured him. She shifted her wine into her off-hand and raised the pewter cup to her eyes, gazing at the new ribbon twirling from her wrist, the russet silk glinting and eddying in the faint breeze.

"No," Kivan agreed, but he sounded mystified. "It does not."


	5. Ribbons Part V

Author's note: And we come to the end of Rain's journey through her past. More huge, wonderful thanks to those who have been reading this story, and I have treasured each and every one of your reviews. Just a warning that the rating has changed, and there is mature content contained within.

RIBBONS – PART V

Slowly, Rain came back to herself, pulling away from the vivid, conflicted memories of her younger self, constricted with sharp, aching emotion. Thinking, feeling, she closed her eyes on their tent and turned her face into Kivan's, where his head was buried in her warm neck, in her loose hair. His soft curls brushed her cheek. Breathing deeply, she let herself sink into their precious, hard-won intimacy just as he was doing, conscious of how fiercely he held her, his bare arms locked strong and tight. He made a soft, wondering sound and pulled her even closer.

"Are you back with me, love?" he asked her gently, his mouth whispering against her cheek. There was a soft, questioning note in his voice, but it was raw too; he seemed to be as deeply affected by their tender, agonised reminiscing as she was.

She nodded, slowly, and opened her eyes, though she did not take her face from his. Kivan was so close, his lips resting on her skin, his breath soft and warm. His eyes were deep and velvet and dark. Rain suddenly found herself unable to speak, her heart too full. So she simply pressed closer to him, his mouth firming on the slant of her face.

He swallowed tightly and kissed her there, his lips moving softly over her skin, following the sharp angle of her cheekbone in a profound, lingering caress. One of his arms slipped free from around her. He cupped her other cheek firmly in his roughened hand so that she was surrounded by him entirely, held captive in Kivan's fierce, intense embrace; surrounded by his warm fingers and scarred skin, his questing mouth. His hard chest pressed securely into her back. He brought his leather-clad knees up either side of her and clamped his thighs to her body, holding her protectively through the thin linen of her shift. Rain felt a hard knot form in her throat, nearly undone.

"Oh, Rain," he breathed heavily, stroking her face with his calloused fingertips. "So much we have seen. So much has passed between us. When I think back to then, and what we could not say, I –" He shook his head, choked, and slipped his hand beneath her hair, cradling her nape. "Elven memory is long," he observed, and his murmur was rich and deep, but haunting, too. Rain's skin prickled with the truth in it.

"Yes," she whispered. "It is."

Kivan stirred and feathered a kiss over her lips, then leaned his brow against hers. "I can still see you," he told her with that intent, haunting quality, imparting another truth. "Still see you in that tavern, so perfectly. Your shining, candlelit eyes, and your laughing smile, the pure joy of your delight. My silk ribbons in your hair and tied to your wrist." He sighed, wistfully, and the soft rush of air moved over her lips. "You were so beautiful. Every man in that room wanted you, and I did too." His voice lowered, becoming soft and husky. It was both sensual and mournful, sad and wanting. His fingers tightened slightly in her nape. "I can tell you this now, my beloved Rain," he whispered. "My dearest _Rosa_."

Rain trembled in his tight embrace, overcome. She overlaid his new admission on her own memories, reconciling them, and a terrible, painful sorrow suddenly strangled her heart. Unbidden, her thoughts flitted back to that awful day when he had finally farewelled her in Baldur's Gate, after Sarevok's defeat. She remembered her utter devastation, her dejected misery. She had been sure she would never see him again. She had been sure he was walking away to his own funeral. But no, she could _not _think about that now, not when he was warm and close, when they were together at last…

Kivan sobered and drew away, carefully disentangling his arms and legs from her. He moved around in front of her and knelt on his bedroll, facing her. He watched her very seriously. The shadows lay on him, on his sable hair and rugged face, on the planes of his scarred, naked chest. She looked back at him, only realising now how long she had been lost in her recollections. The scattered streaks of sun had already left the tent-canvas. The evening was deepening outside. It was humid still, and the insects buzzed more loudly in the Forest of Mir encircling their camp. Kivan raised his hands to Rain's face and framed her, looking at her long and deeply, with eyes full of awe and love.

"You do not know how precious you are to me," he said tenderly, painfully. "What a rare thing you are in this world. That you chose me, Rain, when you could have had any other…" He smiled at her, gently and sorrowfully. "I am glad that your heart was wise, amael. Wise to what truly lay between us, even if I was not yet ready to accept it and face it, not back then." His fingertips brushed from her temples down to her cheeks, very lightly. He carefully grasped her chin his hand. "I love you, Rain," he told her, his voice thick with rich emotion. "And I am glad that my own heart became wise, before it was too late."

With that, Kivan rose a little and leaned over her, moving forward to part her bent knees with one hand. He moved between her thighs, to be closer to her, and her white shift rustled against his legs, whispering against his brown breeches. Rain sucked in a sharp breath and felt her insides melt, going hot and heady with the depth of her desire for him. She lifted her face as he slowly raised her chin. He bent his head to hers and slid his hand up to her cheek, drawing out the moment as his mouth touched hers, very softly, very gently.

He took her head in his hands and kissed her deeply.

She kissed him back, her mouth opening hungrily and helplessly beneath his. She made a tiny sound as he drew her closer, fervently taking her lips for his own. Her hands found the sharp angles of his face, and she caressed him, twisting her fingers into his hair. He shuddered. Shaking with need, the blood pounding in her ears, Rain whimpered in protest as he suddenly pulled away. But when she opened her eyes, she saw that he was as tortured as she was, his breathing fast and ragged as he loomed over her.

"Lirima," he breathed, whispering to her in elvish. "You are so lovely, my beautiful Rain. I thought I had time to tell you everything that lies in my heart, to show you everything that you mean to me, but now, I am not so sure." His voice was rough, hoarse. "The Solar has set us on your path, on your road to your destiny. Alaundo's prophecy draws nigh. I don't want to waste any more time, Rain. I don't want to feel it slipping uselessly through my fingers, away from me."

Choked with emotion, Rain looked up at him in the shadows, into his eyes holding her own. She waited as he sank back onto his knees, still within the embrace of her thighs, and took her shoulders in his warm, yearning hands.

"There is a full moon tonight," he told her quietly, and his dark gaze was open and wanting, inviting. Fevered. "Come away with me, _Rosa_. Walk the forest with me beneath the moon and stars."

Rain felt her lips parting at the naked desire in his face. She nodded, enthralled, and let him tug her up to him, on her knees in their tent. "I will," she said softly.

Kivan smiled at her, long and slow. He reached out for his discarded cloak and pulled it around his bare shoulders, pinning it in place despite the sultry heat. Then he took up his mana bow – not Deheriana's wedding gift – and his quiver. He paused to nuzzle at her neck. "We will bring our blankets," he told her huskily, "and your blades. Nothing else."

She smiled back at him, a sensual light kindling in her eyes. "No boots?" she questioned teasingly. She wrapped her sword-belt around her lean waist, over her shift, and buckled it in place.

His smile widened. "Definitely no boots."

Tilting his head, enticing her, Kivan turned so he could unlace the thongs tying their tent closed. He took the folded blankets from her and crawled out, holding the canvas flap open for her. Rain followed him expectantly. She stood on the springy grass outside their tent, feeling the soft blades beneath her bare feet, and looked towards him, in the direction of the campfire. Jaheira was giving them both an odd look. The druid raised her brows at their blankets, at their state of not-quite undress, but Kivan stalled her before she could demand to know just what they thought they were doing.

"We are going for an evening stroll," he told her smoothly, and flicked the blankets over his shoulder, draping them there. He pulled his strung bow over his head and shouldered his quiver.

Jaheira gazed at him levelly. "In the dark," she pointed out flatly, giving him an ironic stare.

Kivan's mouth twitched in amusement. "In the moonlight," he corrected her, and he lifted his head to the eastern horizon, where the full moon was indeed rising above the trees ringing their clearing, glimpsed through the branches garbed in full, glorious leaf. Rain smiled in wonder. The moon was pale and white and utterly beautiful, the sky blushed with the darkening, fading sunset. Kivan turned back to Rain and reached for her hand.

Jaheira sighed in defeat. "Elves," she muttered, but neither Kivan nor Rain waited to hear more. They left the camp and ventured into the forest, into the deep stillness that accompanied the growing shadows.

Kivan led her onward, deeper, down a path only he discerned, only he knew. The trees grew dense and close. The undergrowth was thicker here than in the Forest of Tethir, more luxurious. Rain drew the damp, fragrant air deep into her lungs, revelling in the musty scent of old bark and the richness of the earth, in the fresh, green, growing things. Her feet followed Kivan's over the uneven ground. She stepped lightly on last autumn's fallen, golden leaves, navigating the small stones and dropped tree-limbs that littered their path. Kivan surveyed the forest, intent and listening. He moved like the ranger he was, utterly immersed in nature. He saw everything. He heard everything. But always, his soft black eyes came back to Rain, and when he smiled at her, she knew that she was the only thing truly on his mind, the only thing he really saw. She smiled back, and his hand tightened on hers.

They came to a wide stream flowing over tiny rounded pebbles. The moonlight glinted silver on the moving waters. Rain dipped her toes in, laughing breathlessly at the cool, wet chill, and Kivan surprised her by suddenly scooping her up into his arms and ferrying her across, one arm under her knees. She wound her arms tightly around his neck and pressed her face into the strong column of his throat, breathing in the warm, smoky male scent of his skin. He laughed softly in simple, quiet joy.

On the other side, he did not set her down. He carried her further, deeper. Rain clung to him. When at last he did slow and pause, Rain lost her breath in the fall of soft, silver moonlight that flooded down unbroken into a tiny glade between the trees, staring around her in awe as he gently tipped her back onto her feet.

There were flowers. So many flowers. All delicate and white and star-like, opening up under the moon, drinking in the silver light. They covered the ground in the glade, mingling with the grass and moss, and the tall vibrant ferns. More flowers wound around the thick trunks of nearby trees, hugging the limbs closely. They were orchids, Rain thought. A deep purple fading to a pristine moonlit-white.

Rain felt her knees go a little unsteady, her balance shaky. She stood there among the flowers as Kivan retreated to the far side of the glade, half in the moonlight, half in the shadows. He looked at her; long, powerfully and intensely. Rain knew exactly what he wanted from her. Slowly, he shrugged out of his bow and quiver. He let their combined blankets fall to the ground. Then, he unfastened his ragged green cloak and slid it from his bare, muscled shoulders, and stood there in only his breeches, his feet naked on the earth.

"Close your eyes," he said hoarsely.

She obeyed, her heart leaping wildly within her breast. She drew in short, sharp breaths as he closed the distance between them, taking his time. Listening to him coming for her, his feet so soft on the flowers and grass, Rain shivered in anticipation, her senses stretched and wide; _taut_. Kivan halted behind her. He reached his arms around her, slow and sensual, and Rain trembled violently as her sword-belt came away, his fingers deft and sure on her buckle. He tossed her scabbards aside, into the shadows.

Kivan stepped back.

There was a short, moonlit silence. Rain squeezed her eyes shut, wondering how he knew just what to do to her, to turn her blood to mindless, molten desire.

"Once," he said, and his voice was thick and strong, near and far. "Once," he repeated, "I was winter. _Hrive_," he hissed fiercely, in elvish.

He took a slow, single step closer to her.

"Then you came," he continued more softly, "and there was spring."

He stepped closer to her again, approaching from behind. He paused, right there at her back and shoulders, so close that the heat of his skin seemed to burn through her thin shift, setting her afire. Rain shuddered and nearly cried out when he traced something soft and delicate along the long curve of her pointed ear, tucking it into her hair.

It was one of the orchids. Rain breathed in its sweet, heady fragrance, growing dizzy with it. She wondered if this was what it felt like to be drunk on love, drunk on passion and need for the man she utterly adored.

"_Ehtele'_," Kivan whispered.

Gently, he ran his fingers down the line of her bare arms to her hands, making her shiver uncontrollably, her pulse quickening madly in her throat and wrists. He captured her fingers and lifted her arms high over her head. Kivan poised her there, waiting, and Rain had the sudden sense that he was about to spin her in a slow, sensual dance, courting her in the silver darkness and moonlight.

"Now," he breathed, his voice breaking, "you are _laire_. Summer. And I love you so very much, my beautiful, magnificent Rain."

He twirled her then, hard, back into his chest. They spun together, twisting and weaving and dancing, just like the copper ribbon she had worn on her wrist, writhing in the air before the lantern-flame. The moonlight was pale on her skin, and it burned in his dark admiring eyes, silvering his black curls. She gripped him tightly and let him love her. His kisses were fierce and needy, his hands longing, caressing her everywhere through her shift. He pulled the linen over her head. When Rain was standing before him in nothing but the bright fall of her hair, clad only in her skin and scars, Kivan sank to his knees in the flowers at her feet and stared up at her, rapt. She thought she might blush, but she did not.

Kivan's love for her was that of a long-lived man's, not a young boy's. She now knew what it was like to receive his passion in full.

_A rare gift indeed_.

"Rain," he whispered, choked. Very gently, he cupped her hips in his trembling hands and pressed his mouth to her skin, kissing the flat of her belly. "Rain," he mouthed again, more fiercely, his lips hot and seeking.

They fell into each other then, lost in each other, wrapped in moonlight and starlight and shadows. They fell down to the carpet of soft white flowers.

Kivan's kisses were hard and consuming. His passion burned her alive. And when he rolled her onto their blankets and took her swiftly, pinning one arm possessively above her head among the starry flowers, in the sweet grass and moss, Rain whispered his name into his mouth and shuddered, knowing that she had come into a love so strong, so intense, that the rest of the world paled into insignificance beyond it. She tightened her fingers on Kivan's hand and clenched hard around him. He groaned, went rigid, and held her eyes, looking down deep, deep and rich, into her own. He breathed her name. Then he let himself go. He arched into her, again and again, and it was a claiming, telling Rain that she was _his_.

In the silvery, shadowed quiet that followed, Kivan pulled her tightly into his arms and showered her face with soft kisses, showing her the sweet, warm depths of his love. He drew his cloak over their hips and embraced her, warming her cooling skin. He smiled at her in the darkness.

"I have been thinking," he said huskily, kissing the tip of her nose. "The next time I come across a ribbon-seller, I am going to buy you the entire stall. Every last ribbon."

Rain laughed quietly and lifted a gentle hand to his cheek. "All the ribbons?" she echoed wryly, amused. "That is a lot of ribbons." She gazed at him, lying there beside her on their tangled blankets, face to face on the ground, and her blue eyes danced. "I might not inspire too much fear in our enemies if I rush at them with my swords drawn and hundreds of silk ribbons tied to my black leathers, all aflutter in the wind. Though I will certainly be memorable," she added mischievously, grinning at him.

Kivan burst out laughing. It was such a free, joyous sound that Rain's heart soared in delight. He wrapped his arms around her back, hard, and pulled her atop him, onto his chest. He grinned up at her in return.

"Well, maybe not _all _the ribbons," he amended. "Just a few. Just enough to grace your beautiful hair, and match your lovely eyes." He cocked his head and gave her a long, affectionate look. "Would you like that, amael?"

Rain found herself drowning in his eyes, in his tender, jet gaze. She smiled and lowered her mouth to his, kissing him very warmly. "Yes, my heart," she whispered. "I would."

_The End_

_(The beginning)_


End file.
